


I can fix anything

by Daxcine78



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 02:31:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21190106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daxcine78/pseuds/Daxcine78
Summary: Can you fix them?”I said, “I can fix anything.”





	I can fix anything

By the time I reached the ass-end of town, I was eleven minutes late and someone was waiting for me.  
He looked horribly out of place against the dingy, low-end backdrop that was my workplace. His suit was too clean, too crisp. His chin was too sharp, his jawline too pristine. I hadn’t seen hair that perfectly arranged since my father’s funeral. My first instinct was to ask the stranger if he was lost.  
“Can I help you?” I asked instead, fishing in my pocket for my shop keys.  
He glanced around nervously, then held up a small pair of leather shoes. “I don’t know,” he said. “Can you fix these?  
I beckoned him through the door and pointed him toward the counter. Then I set to work opening my shop. Lights needed to be turned on (one at a time, damnably), and the little wooden sign that said OPEN needed to be set in the window.  
As I worked, I watched my customer. He waited patiently, for the most part. His eyes roved over a wall of thread, leather, buttons, buckles, clips and cloth. From there they travelled to his pocketwatch. I took my time getting back to the counter, maneuvering around the clutter of books, tools and broken things. It gave me time to correct my hair and come to a few conclusions about the stranger. He was young, maybe my age. His eyes were wary, a bit sad. There was a silver ring on his left ring finger. Married, then.  
I arranged myself behind the counter, tying on my leather apron. He placed the shoes on the ledge, framing them with his fine, pale hands. “Can you fix them?”  
I said, “I can fix anything.”  
In a faint voice, he asked, “How much will it cost?”  
I picked up one of the shoes, turning it around in my hands. It was probably cute once, but now the laces were snapped and retied in odd places. The once-silver buckles were tarnished and the stitching was pulling out. It looked loved.  
“I have one question,” I said. “You can get the exact same shoes just up the street in a nice little shop. Why not just get new ones?” He clearly had the money.  
He hesitated. “Sentimental value, I suppose.”  
Fair enough. “Very good, Mr…”  
“Harper.”  
“Very good, Mr Harper,” I repeated. “I’ll fix them.”  
“How much?”  
“50,” I said.  
He winced.  
“40,” I corrected quickly, “in advance.” It should have cost him much more. He was rich and privileged. That much was evident in his appearance. Why had I been so quick to knock the price? I hoped my self-deprecating grimace looked more like a smile.  
He fished out the appropriate bills with a grateful, timid grin and slid them across the counter. Even the money was clean.  
“They’ll be done tomorrow,” I said. “You can go.”  
He smiled somewhat awkwardly. His teeth were very, very even. The door bells jingled as he left. I picked up the shoe again. The laces would need to be replaced, but at least I could salvage some of the stitching. The buckles could be sanded down and repainted. The leather was worn, but functional. They really were nice shoes. I suddenly wondered who they belonged to.  
I was jerked from my thoughts by a thick, furry tail dragging along the undersides of my wrists. “Damn it, Constantine,” I muttered, dropping the shoe and scooping up the grey cat. “Get off the counter. How many times do I have to say it?”  
He purred. I smiled a bit, then put him on the floor. “Sorry,” I said, “I’ve got work to do.”  
***  
“What about bones? Like, a broken arm?”  
“I can fix anything, Mr Harper, including bones.”  
He stood for a time, watching me. He held the brown paper package with the shoes in his hands, but he still stood there, like he was expecting something. I elected to ignore him, gently tapping dents out of the rusted old automobile that acted as a workshop centerpiece.  
“What if someone was sick? Would that count as broken…health?”  
“No can do,” I said, exchanging my hammer for a sheet of sandpaper. I stood back for a moment to admire my work before scuffing the sheet against the car’s hood. “If it’s broken, I can fix it.”  
“Well, what about…I don’t know, an airplane? It wouldn’t fit in here.”  
“Doesn’t stop me from fixing it.”  
“Do you do house calls, then?”  
“Mr Harper,” I said, trying to come off sounding dignified, “do you need me to fix anything else?”  
“Not at the moment.”  
“Then you’ll have to excuse me, I have work to do.” Nothing too pressing. I hadn’t had any other customers in weeks. He just didn’t have to know that. I’m not sure why I couldn’t let him stand there. I was used to working in silence. Maybe that was it.  
“Of course,” he said, looking vaguely crestfallen. “Didn’t want you to get lonely.” He said it like a joke.  
“I don’t get lonely,” I said, “I have the cat.” It occurred to me that I sounded slightly bitter. Constantine purred in the passenger seat of the car.  
“Well, I guess I’ll be on my way, then.” He thanked me again and turned to leave.  
“Spread the word,” I said under my breath. As if anyone with money like Harper’s would want to be caught dead anywhere near my workshop. No way would he tell his rich friends where they could bring their broken things, even for a cheap and easily negotiable price.  
Business would be poor, as usual.  
***  
“Do I need to file a restraining order on you, Mr Harper?” I joked.  
He smiled, but the upturn of his lips pulled the pale skin tight over his cheekbones and jaw. “I have work for you.”  
“Brilliant,” I said. “What am I fixing?”  
“Car’s looking good,” he said distractedly.  
I set down my paintbrush. “Harper.”  
“N…never mind,” he faltered. “It’s just…such a little thing…”  
“Whatever it is, I can fix it, and I will.”  
He pulled a stuffed dog out of his bag and dumped it on the hood of the car. He was lucky I hadn’t painted it yet.  
“It…” he stammered, “it’s just got a rip in the back of the neck…”  
I checked my fingers and picked it up. All the stuffing had moved out of the body and neck. It was floppy and brown and loved. I sought out the rip and failed to stifle a snort.  
I said, “This will take me two minutes.”  
He replied with, “I know.”  
“And your wife can’t fix this?”  
He responded too quickly, almost interrupting. “I’m not married.”  
I directed an obvious, suspicious glance at the silver band on his finger.  
“She died,” he amended softly.  
My breath caught in my throat. What the hell was I supposed to say to that?  
So I said, “Oh.”  
He said, “What will it cost?”  
“Five,” I said, holding out my hand, “in advance.” He handed over the money in coins. I pocketed it and carried the semi-stuffed dog to the counter.  
It took me one minute and 48 seconds to fix it.  
“Same owner as the shoes?” I asked.  
“Yes,” he smiled tightly. “My daughter.”  
“How old?” It seemed like a polite thing to ask.  
“Nine,” he said. His smile was still tense. Then, “I have to go.”  
“Go on, then,” I grinned. “Spread the word.”  
I said it louder this time. Maybe he heard. Maybe he would. It used to seem unlikely, but with the new insight that the rich were also capable of suffering misfortunes, it also became clear that I had misjudged him.  
***  
The doorbells jingled. I turned to look, trying to bridle my excitement. It had been almost a month since I had a customer.  
“Damn cat,” I swore, aiming a kick at him. I stilled the bells hanging from the doorknob and raked my fingers though my unruly hair. “Stop getting my hopes up.”  
Constantine mewled petulantly.  
“Oh, I see,” I replied tartly. “Don’t give me attitude.”  
I’m talking to a cat.  
Shaking my head at myself, I turned back to the car. It sat amidst the heaps of dimly-lit rubbish like a jewel in the dirt. Between the piles were patches of concrete floor, alluding to the workshop’s previous life as a warehouse. There was a significant ring of clear concrete around the car. I guess you could say it was the pride of my career. Once rusted, dented and falling apart, the vintage piece was now clean, shining and painted a brilliant shade of red.  
I didn’t want to give it back.  
It belonged to a rich gentleman. I’d had it for three months now. The engine block was a mess, but I’d fixed it. It had become my main dedication. I got a bit attached.  
But I needed the money, bad. It had been $500 in advance, and another $2000 on delivery. With the current rarity of customers, I could barely pay the rent. So I picked up the phone I had found in a junkyard and fixed up and I dialled the number scrawled on a sticky note stuck to the counter.  
“Good morning,” I said.  
“Good morning,” he responded, sounding altogether too dignified. It was the voice of old money, vintage wines and antiquities.  
“Your car is done,” I choked. “You can come pick it up.”  
He hung up without saying anything.  
He arrived in the afternoon and paid me. Then, he drove away.  
I felt empty, staring at the open space where the car used to be. Holding the money made me feel worse, almost sick.  
Instead of working, I spent my evening picking up tools and tidying up.  
As I cleaned up to go home, Constantine cried after me. His eyes bugged out slightly, huge.  
I picked him up and tucked him in my coat. He purred all the way home.  
***  
The next time I saw Harper, it had been two months, and he looked like shit.  
“What am I fixing this time?”  
“Nothing,” he said. His voice was empty and swallowed. “I just wanted to bring you this.”  
I took the white envelope, but didn’t open it. “What is this?”  
“An invitation.”  
“To what?”  
He took a deep breath. “My daughter’s funeral.”  
It seemed like an appropriate time to console him, to say I was sorry for his loss and put my hand on his shoulder.  
I did none of these things.  
In fact, I was utterly frozen. How was I supposed to respond to that? I felt unexpectedly vulnerable. I had to remind myself that things like this happened all the time. People died every single day. It had just been a few years since it had felt like such a reality.  
My jaw unstuck. “Oh…”  
…ooooh God, I sounded like an idiot.  
I swallowed. “I…”  
“So,” Mr Harper said, his eyes bright with tears.  
...please don't cry, I can't handle that... “Tell me, Mr…”  
“I didn’t say anything. I knew he was waiting for my surname. I didn’t supply it. I couldn’t. We stared at each other across breathless space.  
“Do you fix broken hearts?”  
My breath hitched. “I can fix anything,” I said. “Just not that.”  
I didn’t go to the funeral. My head was filled with images of a little girl in a little casket, with little leather shoes on her feet and a little stuffed dog perched on her chest. She looked like her father.  
I don’t fix things anymore. I sit down in an office chair in a tidy suit and stare out my window over downtown. Then I set to work and I don’t think.  
I go home to the same apartment, only now Constantine welcomes me home with a purr.  
And I fall asleep lonely, despite the cat.


End file.
